


Decoy

by crabapplered



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 11:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered
Summary: When Noctis is thirteen, the Imperials send a diplomatic delegation to visit the Citadel. Chancellor Ardyn Izunia, a 'functionary of no real importance,' takes an instant and powerful interest in the young Heir.Ignis is determined to keep the man away from Noctis.No matter what he must do.





	Decoy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PikaCheeka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PikaCheeka/gifts).



"Prince Noctis. A pleasure to meet you, and all that." Chancellor Ardyn makes his bow, an extravagant motion of outstretched arms and a twirl of his hat. The hat he drops onto the head of his escort, Imperial Brigadier General Ulldor, and takes in trade the officer's flute of white wine.  
  
Ulldor's face flushes scarlet, mottles to purple as the Chancellor holds his gaze and takes a slow, deliberate sip of the wine. But Ulldor says nothing, Ignis notes, and his throat cramps with sudden dryness when he tries to swallow.  
  
Noctis, oblivious to the fear winding in throttling coils around Ignis, sways in the graceful half-bow of the Heir. He might have pouted and whined about the necessity, but he'd dutifully endured the hours of etiquette practise, submitted to the flash card drills of names and faces, and allowed himself to be bound and wound in the tailored pinstripe of the royal raiment, and it had payed off brilliantly. He is a slender figure in impeccable royal black, as inhumanly flawless as the night and untouchable as the moon above.  
  
_Good. Keep it up, Noct. Let them find no chinks in your armour._  
  
Noctis will need that protection. Though they may be in the black heart of the Lucian palace, its marble walls cannot shield him from the worms that have eaten their way in: a delegation of Imperials allegedly come to discuss a formal peace treaty, here now to eat lunch, and later dinner, to talk and to talk, to lie and to lie some more. For days, even.  
  
"You're still so _young_ ," sighs the Chancellor, his attention back to Noctis. "Thirteen, isn't it? I knew I should have waited. I must be getting impatient in my old age. But you see," he says in sweetly confiding tones as he leans too far into Noctis' space, the many layers of his coat and shirt rustling like dead leaves. "The Imperial Court is so ghastly dull. Nothing but uniformed fuddy-duddies cluttering up the place, dear Ravus strutting about like a particularly cranky white peacock, and that _terrible_ shadow from the Keep making everything dismally dark."  
  
For a heart stopping moment Ignis fears Noctis will step on the political landmine of Luna's older brother.  
  
Boyish curiosity saves the day. "A shadow . . ." Noct mumbles, sleepy boredom fading from his eyes. "Do you mean from Zegnautus Keep? Does it really fly?"  
  
"Oh yes! It's quite the spectacle."  
  
The Brigadier General finally dislodges out the outrage from his throat and burbles, "It's a wondrous feat of technological engineering! The pride of the Imperial Research Division!"  
  
"And an absolute disaster for the electrical bills of anyone living underneath," Ardyn counters cheerfully. He brushes away the subject with a careless wave of his hand. "Never mind the military toys. I'm not here to talk about the Empire. I want to learn about _you_." His unsettling green amber gaze rakes up and down Noctis' body before settling on his face.  
  
"About . . ." falters Noctis.  
  
"About you _Lucians_ ," says Ardyn. "Tell me, your Highness, would it be possible to beg a private tour of the Citadel from you? Nothing in the way of the restricted sections, of course. I mean, oh, those famed portrait galleries, for example, and you supposedly have a truly exquisite library. They would be much preferable to visit than staying for these endless rounds of yammering. Everyone is too busy trying to impress each other to pay us any mind." He thrusts the half-drunk glass of wine into Ulldor's hands, then takes back his hat and puts it on at a jaunty angle. "So why don't you and I use this opportunity to escape- I mean, enjoy an afternoon of 'cultural exchange?'"  
  
Noctis glances back over his shoulder at Ignis.  
  
An emphatic 'no' has to be immediately throttled. This Chancellor Ardyn might have been an unexpected addition to the Imperial delegation, a self-described 'functionary of no real importance,' but he moves through his fellow politicos like a weasel in a henhouse, delighting in the shed feathers and frightened squawking.  
  
_Certainly the Brigadier General is just another chicken before him_ , thinks Ignis, calculations scrolling through his brain in rapid fire. One variable looms large: Noctis' habit of unsupervised adventures.  
  
Ardyn's sly jab about an 'escape' means he's clearly perceptive enough to realize how stifling these functions must be for Noctis. Is he also charming enough, poisonously _seductive_ enough to lure a rebellious teen prince away from an overstrict guardian?  
  
' _I want to learn about_ you.'  
  
"I don't see the harm," Ignis says. Weighs what would be too much resistance against what would be too unsafe. Settles against calling for Gladio and offers in his blandest servant's voice, "There are Crownsguard stationed anywhere visitors are authorized, so you won't be needing a formal escort. Why don't you start by showing him the portrait gallery?"  
  
~  
  
The first attempt comes right after they leave the reception hall. Noctis turns them toward the elevators, and Chancellor Ardyn is walking in step when he takes ostentatious notice of Ignis following behind.  
  
His voice is heavy with syrupy-sweet surprise. "Oh. Will _you_ be joining us, then? I didn't expect a-" disdainful curl of his lip "-nanny."  
  
Noctis presses the call button for the elevator. "Naw, it's okay. Iggy's cool." He looks back and motions to Ignis, who promptly takes his place not behind Noctis, but beside him.  
  
Right between Noctis and Ardyn, in fact.  
  
It's an incredible breach of protocol, one no servant would ever dream of making, but as Noctis' adviser and childhood playmate it is one Ignis is actually entitled to make. And while he's always careful not to abuse the privilege, he's entirely willing to use it to full effect in this instance.  
  
Because there is a savage, bestial fire in Ardyn's gold-green eyes that burns to ash any smile that tries to reach them, and when he looks at Noctis it's with the lazy hunger of a bored cat. This . . . this _predator_ is not seeking mere consumption Ignis knows, having seen this look too often in bullies at school, in petty bureaucrats drunk on their own power. Ardyn wants to _toy_ with Noctis. To bat him into a corner and watch him squirm before Ardyn deigns to end the misery and crush him.  
  
_I won't let you,_ Ignis vows. _No matter what it takes, no matter what I must do, I won't let you so much as brush a finger against the back of his hand_.  
  
Into and out of the elevator, down the halls and past the endless lines of blank-faced Crowsguard the three of them walk, and all the while Ignis moves around Noctis like a protective moon, a unfaltering orbit that carries him between his charge and Ardyn's every slinking attempt to cozy up to Noctis' side.  
  
Ignis doesn't miss the contemptuous glance Ardyn throws his way the fourth time it happens. Is very, very careful to keep his face in a pleasantly neutral mask. He's under no illusions that he can win against the Chancellor in a direct confrontation - not without causing a major political incident, at least, and distaste for the man's character and vague suspicions about his intentions aren't an excuse for provoking all out war. These passive-aggressive little games, however? _These_ Ignis can play.  
  
And he will do so gladly, walking the knife edge of politeness with his guts in knots and his shirt sticking with sweat and his hands and heart so very cold, because the more irritated the Chancellor becomes with Ignis the less attention he's paying to Noct.  
  
They reach the portrait gallery and Ardyn makes his second attempt.  
  
He skips ahead of them through the double doors, spins dramatically in place and makes a show of staggering back at the sight of the hundreds of gold-framed paintings that cover the walls in a sumptuous mosaic. "Look at all these stern faces! And, oh, very dramatic, this scene of . . . planting some sort of garden? So much history! We could really use a guide, don't you think, your Highness? Some kind soul that could be fetched to give us the who-what-when?"  
  
Noctis, blissfully ignorant of the Chancellor's true intentions, grins and gives Ignis a little push forward. "We've already got the best guide with us. Iggy knows everything about everyone here."  
  
" _Does_ he," says Ardyn, the faintest edge to his words. "Well then! How about this round gentleman-"  
  
"King Cyprian the Generous," Ignis supplies.  
  
"Yes, well, his cooks obviously were. What . . . was his favourite colour?"  
  
"Green. He had the royal suite repainted to match his tastes," says Ignis, having spent endless hours researching trivia about every one of these exalted ancestors in the hopes of entertaining Noctis during the months the boy had spent walking up and down the hall for physiotherapy after his return from Tenebrae.  
  
Chancellor Ardyn twitches an eyebrow, and tries again, "And this lady over here? What did she like to eat for breakfast?"  
  
"Calliope the Gentle. While it's difficult to say for certain what her exact preferences were, Royal cookbooks from her time list over two dozen recipes for buttermilk waffles, so that's the most likely answer."  
  
That actually makes the Chancellor pause.  
  
He asks several more questions and Ignis answers each one, regurgitating facts from a throat gone so dry the vowels rasp like sandpaper, the beads of sweat sliding down his back a torturous reminder of relief he will not get. And all the while the rulers of Lucis stare down at him, painted eyes unblinking and merciless in their expectation that he perform flawlessly for this man, pass his tests, play his game, and _keep him from finding an excuse to be alone with Noctis_.  
  
The contempt in Ardyn's voice is barely held in check when he says, "You know so much about them all. How _dull_ it must have been studying endless lists of commonplaces."  
  
"I am a retainer to the house of Lucis Caelum," Ignis says in measured tones. "Learning about their Majesties, past and present, is both my duty and my privilege. One I _cherish_ ," he adds, for the first time unable to resist challenging that predator's gaze.  
  
" _Really_ ," breaths Chancellor Ardyn and Ignis can _see_ the man's pupils dilate, the green-gold irises swallowed up by black pits until there is nothing of colour, of life, left in that gaze.  
  
Every hair on the back of Ignis' neck stands on end.  
  
"Such an exemplary servant, ministering even to the dead. And how lucky these _Lucis Caelums_ are to have you. I am," Ardyn bites out, "quite _sick_ with envy."  
  
Sick, yes, this man is sick in a way that Ignis doesn't understand, is only just beginning to grasp. That shabby coat and shirt like layers of dead skin, seeping a black pus of shadows, and that little twist of his lips that holds nothing of a smile, only the terrible rictus grin of a hungry ghost.  
  
Yes.  
  
Hungry.  
  
This man is hungry, no, is _starving_. Ignis can see it now, can _feel_ it in way the Chancellor has fastened all his attention on Ignis, looking for any weakness, any excuse to rip into him and feed on his flesh and the only solace Ignis has in this moment, the silence crushing him and the hunger of this man sliding fish hooks under his skin, is that there's no need to shield Noctis. Ardyn's attention is on Ignis, and Ignis alone.  
  
In the distance, the chimes installed by His Majesty Felix the Measured toll the hour and slay the beast that is this awful quiet. Never has Ignis felt so favoured by the Crown.  
  
The moment lost, Ardyn turns away.  
  
Then the Chancellor sighs and slumps and shrugs, back to his theatrical posturing. "Alas. We can't all be so blessed. Never mind. Let's move on, shall we."  
  
~  
  
From the portrait hall they go to the indoor garden and from there to the public trophy room. At every step Chancellor Ardyn tries to shake Ignis loose, his attempts ranging from pointed comments ("Is following at your master's heel your only duty?") to transparent ploys ("Won't you fetch us some refreshments?")  
  
And yet they aren't serious attempts. More like another series of tests, tricks to put a show dog through its paces. How high can he jump, how fast can he trot, and will he bark, bark, bark on command.  
  
Ignis grits his teeth and performs.  
  
He can't tell if it's his false obedience or his barely-hidden defiance that amuses Ardyn. He doesn't care. As long as the man keeps his attention on Ignis it means he isn't trying to put his hands on Noctis.  
  
But Ignis' careful act of dutiful servant is fraying rapidly at the edges what with his fear growing apace to his defiance as he slowly runs out of counters. He isn't old enough to have developed the wellspring of excuses and connections he needs to keep up with a man like Ardyn. He can hide behind his duty to Noctis, exploit his position as childhood friend, use his phone to delegate any errands the Chancellor tries to send him on, but in the end there's nothing he can do against a direct order to leave, and they both know it.  
  
Well. There is one thing. A trump card Ignis has been saving all afternoon.  
  
But it's not subtle, nor is it particularly diplomatic, and it will leave Ignis squarely in the line of fire. He's more than willing to accept that. It's the fact that he won't be able to use this trick again that has him stalling.  
  
_Not much longer now._  
  
Not when Noctis is finally beginning to notice the power struggle, a crease folding itself between his eyebrows as he glances between Ignis and the Chancellor, who has sauntered over to the pedestal at the exit to the trophy room.  
  
"A guest book! What a quaint antique in this digital age. They even have a fountain pen. Now, let me see, how _does_ one use these again?"  
  
It's all the warning Ignis gets. A twist of Ardyn's fingers and the ink squirts out, a dark slash across Ignis' livery. Invisible on his black vest, it's made his right cuff into a fair imitation of coeurl print.  
  
"Oops," says Ardyn, his face a moue of remorse. "I _am_ sorry. I suppose you'll have to go change. We wouldn't want you disgracing the Lucian Crown with such a slovenly appearance."  
  
Ignis breathes deeply. Moves slowly. Pulls out his handkerchief and pats the ink dry.  
  
Beside him, Noctis bites his lip. ". . . Ignis?"  
  
"Not to worry." It's a reassurance for Noctis, a denial to Ardyn. He tucks away his handkerchief and unbuttons his cuffs and then, staring directly into the Chancellor's green-gold predator eyes, neatly rolls his sleeves up above his elbow. "Serving a rambunctious young prince teaches one how to cope with such minor difficulties. Such an accident is unexceptional in terms of _adolescent_ hijinks," he adds, unable to resist the swipe.  
  
Ardyn's answering smile is all teeth. "Clever boy. Make sure not to cut yourself on your own wit. It would be awkward for you to bleed out when there's still so much to do." He tosses away the fountain pen, careless of how it bounces off the pedestal and tumbles to the marble floor to lie in a spreading pool of its own black juices. "Let's go see that library, shall we?"  
  
"Of course, sir." Ignis doesn't dare so much as glance at the pen for fear of giving Ardyn an opening to be rid of him.  
  
His silence over the vandalism is enough to clue Noctis in to how serious things have become, and the prince quietly begins to panic. He's doing his best to keep up a proper facade, but his eyes are a little too wide, his hands clenched tight, his back too straight after the lazy slouch he'd had in the picture gallery.  
  
Ignis steps in close to him as Chancellor Ardyn begins leading them out of the trophy room, and when he has Noctis' attention, casts a significant glance at the lurking Crownsguard and then shakes his head the barest amount. _Don't do it, Noct. If we get the guards involved this will escalate into a political nightmare._  
  
Fear and frustration in Noctis' eyes, and no wonder. The pair of them are pinned by the Empire's might even here in the Citadel, the threat of war an effective goad to keep them jumping through this unctuous bastard's endless hoops.  
  
Ignis takes Noctis' hand in a fleeting squeeze. 'Chin up,' he mouths. Letting the fear overcome them only makes the situation worse.  
  
It seems to steady Noctis. His chin not only comes up, it gets a stubborn jut to it. His blue eyes narrow, his shoulders straighten. He glares at the back of Ardyn's head, and when the Chancellor, having noticed they're lagging behind, glances back over his shoulder at them and asks, "Something the matter, boys?"  
  
Noctis replies, "Y-yeah, actually. I'm- I'm hungry! The snacks from earlier weren't enough. I wanna go grab something to eat."  
  
Too clumsy. The Chancellor swats it aside smoothly, saying, "But we've yet to see the library, and I had so hoped to catch a glimpse. It's right down this hall, isn't it?" He's still walking, his momentum carrying them all forward. "It should only take a brief moment. Surely you can grant your _honoured guest_ a few more minutes of your time?"  
  
" . . . Alright," Noctis concedes. "But after this that's it. I'm starving, and . . . and only Iggy knows what I like. So we have to get to the kitchens."  
  
"I suppose one must make allowances for growing boys," the Chancellor sighs.  
  
A brief, darting look of triumph from Noctis that Ignis can't return. Noct missed his chance. If he'd insisted it might have been rude, but excusably so for a spoilt young prince. Now Ardyn is free to coax, 'just five more minutes' or 'this won't take long' or 'one last look' in endless loops-  
  
And then the library comes into view and everything is moot because there is only one Crownsguard stationed at the door.  
  
There should always be two. _Always_.  
  
Ignis doesn't waste a thought on why one is missing. He makes sure to get a good look at the remaining guard's face as they walk past into the library, and sends a prayer of thanks to the Six when he recognizes her from the security briefings. Good enough. Then he slides his hand into his pocket for his phone and blindly taps in the code he'd prepared days ago for a disaster like this.  
  
It takes a small eternity, entire microseconds, for the signal to flash from his phone to Gladio's, trace itself through the automation program Ignis had installed, and slingshot itself back home with its prize.  
  
Ignis' phone chimes. He pulls it out, swipes the screen with steady fingers, reads the text his program had retrieved. "Your Highness. Gladiolus would like a word." He shows Noctis the text. "You had best go find him before he sets security on high alert. You know how prone he is to overreacting if he thinks you're missing. Nothing short of you showing up in person will satisfy his paranoia."  
  
Because Ignis' program has left very explicit instructions on Gladio's phone.  
  
"I'll stay here and look after the Chancellor." Ignis voice and hands hold steady and part of him is proud, so proud he can look Noctis in the eyes and send him away to safety.  
  
"But-" Noctis' gaze flits between Ignis and Ardyn.  
  
Ignis says, "Go. And, your Highness? Make sure to take the guard outside with you as escort. Gladio will throttle me if I let you run off unaccompanied."  
  
~  
  
The royal library is a vast, vaulted space made small and close by the maze of towering black shelves that cut it into narrow allies and deep canyons. The lights are kept low for the sake of ancient texts. The walls are padded with tapestry renditions of storm clouds, the windows muffled by heavy drapes of inky silk.  
  
None of the Crownsguard are at their posts inside. Even the librarian is gone.  
  
"And so you have me to yourself at last." Chancellor Ardyn makes of the reception area his stage, standing in the light by the front desk and bowing deep to his audience of one. Like any actor, he can't resist a monologue, continuing, "I must admit, I'm impressed. It was a choice bit of manoeuvring. Did you program that automated message yourself? Never mind." He waves away the question. "It doesn't matter. I do wonder, however, if you've thought this through. You are a servant, and I an Imperial Chancellor. You a child, and I an adult. And we are oh, so very, very alone here."  
  
He begins to advance in a slow, prowling gait, his gaze never leaving Ignis' face.  
  
"Whatever happens here you will be powerless to stop and powerless to avenge. You are immaterial in the grand scheme of politics, and were you to cause an embarrassment, so _easily disposed of_."  
  
Ignis stands his ground and answers, "Exactly."  
  
Ardyn stops. His head tilts and he frowns, faint and puzzled.    
  
"Hypothetically speaking," says Ignis, forcing the words out in a flat, emotionless voice, "Were I to kill you, the Crown could forswear any responsibility. There are dozens of terrorist organizations that would love to claim such a coup, and linking me to any one of them would likely be no difficulty at all. A dossier of proof, a quick execution, and a sincere apology would be enough to account for the incident. It would be ugly," Ignis concludes, "but salvageable."  
  
"Are you . . . are you threatening me?" Ardyn is wide eyed, rocking back on his heels.  
  
"Merely a hypothetical. I would never dare do such a thing to a member of the Imperial Court. Even a 'functionary of no real importance,'" says Ignis, throwing the man's lie back in his teeth.  
  
"You are a _viper_ ," breaths Chancellor Ardyn delightedly. His eyes, strange and animal, widen, seem to glow. The shadows of the library melt and run down his face, down the layers of his coat to pool at his feet. He takes a single stride forward and- does he warp? He's so close, too close, bending down to loom over Ignis, grab him by the jaw to force his face up. "Yet a snake doesn't use its venom without need. Surely we've no need for such extreme measures and can come to some other arrangement."  
  
His hands drop to Ignis' shoulders and spin him, then jerk him close so Ardyn can grind his hips against Ignis' backside. "Lovely boy. You can't stop me from taking what I want, so why not play along instead? Show me some of your Lucian hospitality. I only came because I was so very bored back in the Empire. Keep me entertained and I'll likely forget all my dastardly plans." He chuckles, a low, throaty sound he pours directly into Ignis' ear, breath hot, lips just brushing Ignis' skin. "At least until dinner."  
  
The weight of Ardyn's hands is crushing, the curl of his fingers over Ignis' shoulders like the talons of a beast. He laps at the skin of Ignis' neck and presses a kiss to where the pulse throbs and Ignis' head is spinning, his breath coming too fast, his body wracked by a sudden shudder he can't repress.  
  
_Why? Why!? I knew it would come to this! I accepted it when I sent Noct out so why-?_  
  
He clenches his hands, forces his nails to cut into his palms, uses the clean, bright pain of it to steady himself. Then, before he can completely disgrace himself and lose his nerve-  
  
-he turns his head and presses his mouth to Adryn's.  
  
Hands in his hair, an instant, iron grip forcing him into position, tipping his head to the right angle so Ardyn can work their lips together, wedge his tongue inside and rape Ignis' mouth in a long, lurid stroke of wet muscle. The suddenness, the alien feel of slick inside him has Ignis gagging but he endures for a calculated four heartbeats before he bites down, sudden. Sharp.  
  
Ardyn drops his hold, staggering back a step. "Is _that_ your idea of hospitality?"  
  
Ignis wipes his mouth and glares. "I thought you might prefer it to the _monotony_ of immediate compliance. Sir," he sneers.  
  
"Enchanting creature!" Ardyn crows, and laughs and laughs and grabs Ignis by the vest and throws him bodily onto the front desk, slamming him down and scattering papers and knocking the wind out of Ignis, the desk lamp crashing to the floor. The musical sound of shattering glass skitters to all corners of the library, bouncing back in tinkling echoes as Ignis reflexively lifts his hands to defend himself and finds his wrists locked in a grip of iron.  
  
"I am going to hurt you," purrs the Chancellor. "With my hands." He tightens his grip, grinding together bones in Ignis' wrists. "With my mouth." He takes one of Ignis' little fingers in his mouth and bites and _breaks it_ , and when Ignis tries to shriek Ardyn crams their lips together in a savage mockery of a kiss, swallowing down the sound, lapping at the whimpering agony spilling from Ignis' tongue.  
  
He pulls back and says, "With my cock," and his hands release their hold and start clawing at Ignis' belt.  
  
The metal jingles as the buckle gives way. Ignis lies on his back and stares up at the shadowed pit of the vaulted ceiling and sucks in air. This is happening. He had known this would happen, known it from the moment he saw the way Ardyn looked at Noctis, and oh, gods. Noctis. This must _never_ happen to Noctis.  
  
The belt gets tossed to the floor. The button of Ignis' fly is popped, the zip pulled, and then a few hard yanks get trousers and underthings down just far enough to bare his limp penis, the swell of Ignis' bottom. The world spins and Ignis is crushed, face down on the desk with his legs left to dangle over the edge. His shoes scrabble on the slick marble floor. There's a copy of 'A Lady's Herbarium' on the desk, waiting to be re-shelved. Pointless detail.  
  
His glasses shift, bend. He pulls them off -whimpers as he jars his broken finger- folds them carefully and set them aside on the desk, by the book, and his hands shake, and shake. Pointless detail.  
  
Ardyn grabs him by the hair and wrenches his head sideways so he can whisper into Ignis' ear, "I hope you weren't counting on a last minute rescue." His other hand strokes the curve of Ignis' ass, then glides fingers down the crack. "Because I guarantee there will be. no. _interruptions_ ," he finishes, and thrusts his finger into Ignis.  
  
It's an awful, tearing kind of pain, an intimate agony he can't escape, pinned as he is between the desk and Ardyn' hands. He whimpers and hates himself for it. Claws at the desk and wails as his wounded hand punishes him. Pants and gasps, open mouthed, as Ardyn relentlessly gropes his way in, and for a terrible moment Ignis could swear this is all Ardyn is: a pair of cruel hands, a sickly-sweet voice, and musty coat leaking darkness, leaking-  
  
"That's right. Open up for me just like that."  
  
_At least the bastard sounds pleased. That's good_ , Ignis tells himself. _It's good, this is good, this is the best possible outcome._  
  
He hates that it's true and he hates that he cowardly wishes otherwise, wishes he could have somehow saved himself. And above all hates the man doing this to him. The loathing bleeds from his soul to fill the empty space Ardyn has carved out and Ignis feels it seeping from his mouth, from his eyes, dripping from the hole of his ass when Ardyn finally pulls out his fingers.  
  
The sound of rustling cloth as Ardyn bares himself. "Enough foreplay. In we go~!"  
  
He sounds so _fucking_ cheerful!  
  
_Good._  
  
The Chancellor takes hold of Ignis' hips and digs his nails into the hollows of them in a gratuitous bit of meanness, the blunt head of his cock hot and wet and terrible as it presses at Ignis' entrance.  
  
_Good!_  
  
The first thrust is the same rip as a hangnail but it goes on and on and it's inside and Ignis thrashes like a fish on a hook, helpless as he's speared and dragged backward to his doom. He tries to breath through it, tells himself it helps, and when he hears Ardyn's low chuckles he forces himself to be pleased.  
  
_Keep him happy, keep him entertained, keep his attention away from Noctis._  
  
But the truth is he doesn't know how. A rape like this is nothing more than a quick release to someone like Ardyn. Ignis doesn't know what do, what more to give to keep this man from downing him like a shot of cheap champaign before moving on to the feast Noctis offers, and that, _that_ is what finally breaks Ignis' resolve.  
  
Tears well up, salt and bitter. They drip down his face in searing drops of raw despair, slick up the polished walnut of the desk. The next thrust of Ardyn's dick pushes out more, the wet sobbing impossible to hold back. He buries his face in his folded arms to try and hide it only to find himself gathered up in Ardyn's arms, held to the man's chest in a parody of a lover's embrace. The layers of coat flutter around him like moth wings. The man is still wearing that gods damned hat.  
  
And his hands, those terrible, inescapable hands are brands on Ignis' body. They do no more than touch and yet pain and ruin follow in their wake, leaving his flesh feeling bruised and foul. Bad enough to have the one slip under his shirt and pet his belly in revoltingly possessive fashion, Ardyn seemingly trying to feel the surge of his own cock in Ignis' guts. Worse to have the other come up and cradle Ignis' jaw, turn his head so he's looking up at Ardyn.  
  
"Ah, now those are truly lovely," Ardyn croons, and leans in to lick the drops from Ignis' cheeks. Sadist. And worse, cliché.  
  
The sudden contempt Ignis feels for this caricature of human spite crystallizes in his brain. Keep him happy? Easy enough when the man hungers for another's misery. Ignis lets the tears flow, and if they spring from his well of rage instead of despair it's not like Ardyn cares enough to realize. Keep him entertained? Not so difficult either now that Ignis' mind is working.  
  
He glares at the Chancellor through the veil of wet lashes. "I can beg, too. Would you like that?"  
  
Again, Ardyn's throaty laughter. "Oh, please do!"  
  
Ignis knows exactly what Ardyn is expecting: Stop. It hurts. So what he serves him instead is a trembling, rage filled and clearly insincere, "Please, sir." A deep breath. "More. _Please_."  
  
And Ardyn's green amber eyes go black with lust.  
  
_Yes. Look at me._  
  
"Harlot," Ardyn breaths appreciatively, and crushes his mouth to Ignis'.  
  
He fucks Ignis at both ends, with cock and with tongue, in a frantic, staccato rhythm, as if suddenly desperate to be inside him. Scrapes his nails in lines of fire over Ignis' belly as if to gut him. When he pulls his face away he leaves strings of spit behind in Ignis' mouth, and it's only to breathes close and damp, forcing them to share oxygen as he demands, "Tell me you like this!"  
  
"I've n-never had- had better sex," Ignis chokes out with poisonous truth.  
  
"Darling viper," moans Ardyn, and kisses him again, bitting and bloody. "Am I truly your first? How wondrous, to ruin you for anyone else." He uses the desk to brace Ignis' hip and grinds forward, forcing the wood to cut into Ignis' skin even as he forces his cock deeper, deeper. "A minor miracle considering you're such a _rutting slut_ , so eager to take cock in the name of your masters." He kisses Ignis' cheek, his temple, his ear, and whispers, "Tell me who you belong to."  
  
"I- I s-serve the _Lucis Caelums_ ," Ignis snarls, defiance to this man who holds him, who fucks him, who marks him and hurts him and tries so hard to swallow him up.  
  
Oh, gods. He can _feel_ Ardyn's cock throb inside him. And it doesn't stop. Seems to only get worse, a horrible swelling, a monstrous unfurling inside of Ignis' bowels, and he blinks away his tears and looks into Ardyn's face and sees a _nightmare_.  
  
Yellow eyes oozing pus. Mouth a black slash across skin the pallid white of a drowned corpse.  
  
"Tell me you want me," rasps the creature that is Ardyn.  
  
Time . . . slows . . .  
  
.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
. . . and in that endless moment, one thought remains:  
  
_This thing must_ never _touch Noctis._  
  
"I want you," Ignis says, his voice cracking under the weight of this wretched truth, because the only other choice is to let this thing free to hunt another and that Ignis will not allow.  
  
_So look at me._  
  
He swallows the iron taste of fear and leans up and in.  
  
_Only_ ever _look at me._  
  
Presses their mouths together.  
  
The kiss is absurdly chaste, a bare brush of lips. Ignis' eyes close, his tears slide free, and Ardyn- Ardyn _whimpers_. A convulsive shudder goes through the man, his body wracked with spasms, his arms locking around Ignis and his hips giving a final wild thrust and whatever he's got inside Ignis' body twists like an eel and bursts in a shocking flood of cold, heavy liquid, filling Ignis with spurt after spurt of viscus- is it pus? Is it the black sickness leaking from Ardyn's face? What else could it be?  
  
And what else can Ignis do but go limp and allow himself to be filled up, used up, as Ardyn makes broken noises into their joined mouths. It goes on and _on_ and Ignis swears he's going to drown from the inside, feels full and sick from it. He's starting to grow cold. Dizzy. Shock, perhaps?  
  
Darkness at the edge of his vision. He can't last much longer.  
  
_Please . . ._  
  
". . . let me be enough," he sighs into Ardyn's mouth.  
  
Then he passes out.  
  
~  
  
Ignis wakes in the library, alone and in the dark. The world is a maze of shadows, the ceiling a night sky without stars or moon. He's laid out on the front desk like a sacrifice on an alter. His head throbs and his mouth tastes foul and his belly feels heavy and strange. He presses his hand to his abdominals. Nothing. He doesn't know what he was expecting. A swelling? A horrible moving thing under his skin?  
  
He sits up slowly. His clothing is in place. The scattered pages are now neatly stacked on a nearby reading table, the broken lamp has vanished from the floor.  
  
_My spectacles. Where-?_  
  
A white square on the ground about a meter away, stark and strange in the middle of the black marble. Paper, and on it, his spectacles, neatly folded.  
  
He doesn't so much rise from the desk as tumble, rolling off the side to land on legs that buckle immediately, forcing him to grab the edge for balance.  
  
He frowns down at his hands. His head feels full of spiderwebs. He needs clarity.  
  
_My spectacles._  
  
He forces strength into his wobbly limbs. He stumbles forward in lurching zigzags, and when he gets to the page on the ground he doesn't bother to kneel, simply gives in to gravity and collapses to his knees in slow, crumpled stages.  
  
It's when he picks up his spectacles, unfolding the arms so he can check the lenses before putting them on, that he realizes it: his littler finger has been healed.  
  
It's been left crooked.  
  
He bends it and feels the slightest grind of a joint left out of place. A minor cruelty. Bends it again, and again, and with every twinge of pain jagged-edged fragments of his memory return. The portrait gallery. The trophy room. His-  
  
(hands and tongue and cock and something else, something horrible, and all of it inside him, and why does he still feel so sick and so heavy?)  
  
-his _confrontation_ with the monster that is Chancellor Ardyn.  
  
For a very bad moment he thinks he's going to be sick, but his day has been miserable enough without adding that to it. Besides, it's not like it would help him rid his body of the poison Ardyn left behind.  
  
And so he breaths through his nose, deep, slow, swallows back bile, and endures.  
  
Then, when he finally has himself under control, when his spectacles are back on his face and he's numbed his horror with the ice of resolve, he picks up the note and reads the swooping cursive.  
  
'See you at dinner, sweet viper.'  
  
\- END


End file.
